


The Point of Murder

by Illusiory



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusiory/pseuds/Illusiory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the first chapter of a five-chapter Sherlock Holmes piece I wrote for my Year 10 English independent work.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of a five-chapter Sherlock Holmes piece I wrote for my Year 10 English independent work.

**CHAPTER ONE**

_

September 24th, 1890

_

Sherlock Holmes carefully retrieved a thick volume from a shelf by his door and began flicking through the pages. It was in this tome that I had embodied all our adventures to date, a habit that he often questioned. After a minute he put the book aside and flopped on the floor, shaking his head.

“I can’t bear it. Why are there no cases? What has happened to the criminal class?”

“I daren’t hazard a guess,” I replied, as a sharp rap on the door captured Sherlock’s attention. “Are we in luck?”

“Of course we’re not in luck, why would we be lucky?” he stood wearily and turned towards the door, and called out “Come in, Mrs Hudson!” A bustling woman in a dress and apron entered the room, carrying a tray bearing a pewter teapot and two porcelain cups. After carefully placing it on a corner of the side table, she glanced around the room. 

“Mr Holmes, you’ve made a mess of the rooms again,” she scolded, pushing some thick tomes from the small table by the armchairs to make way for her tray. 

Sherlock lunged forward, catching the books before they touched the faded carpet. “Careful, please Mrs Hudson. Some of these books are vital to my work” 

She gave him a beady-eyed glare. “Then why don’t you take the time to put them back on the shelf?”

She bustled across to the door, which she shut behind her with a sharp click. Sherlock snorted, placed the books back on the shelf, and flopped down into the soft cushions of the best armchair. 

“She has a point, Holmes,” I ventured, passing one of the exquisitely delicate porcelain cups to him.

“I have no incentive. No reason to change anything. Why would I bother? Best to keep your brain ready for information that really matters, Watson.”

He took the cup and poured some black tea and took a sip. I followed suit, adding a teaspoonful of sugar from a small blue pot. The hot steam of the Earl Grey billowed up into my face as I gingerly sipped the scalding liquid. Holmes sighed, and was about to pick up a book when a clatter from downstairs caught his attention. He sprang to his feet, placed his cup on the table and fluidly opened the door, stepping out onto the landing. I followed, and was about to start down the stairs when a hand grabbed the cuff of my sleeve and yanked down hard. I fell to the floor, narrowly avoiding hitting my head on the banister.

“Keep quiet!” Sherlock hissed at me as I opened my mouth. “Look there.” I peered between the posts of the banister, reserving my admonishment for later. “See the man down there?” Sherlock whispered, indicating the direction with a tilt of his head.  
I leaned forward and spotted the man he was referring to.

“Yes... what’s he doing?” 

“I’m not certain at this point,” Sherlock muttered, frowning, “but I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”

The man was standing slightly to the edge of the hall, one boot resting on the faded carpet and the other on the polished wood floor, his hand on the doorknob of one of the other sets of rooms. A hat-stand lay cross-ways on the floor, obviously the source of the disturbance that had caught our attention. He was shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes flicking from doorway to doorway. When he was certain that no-one was coming, he carefully pulled the door shut, and started to leave.

“Quick, Watson. Confront him!” Holmes whispered forcefully, crawling back towards the door. 

I stood quietly, and then called down below. “Is there something I can do for you?” The man almost jumped out of his skin, whirling around so fast that his coat billowed out behind him.

“Oh... sorry... I didn’t-”

“What is it that you want?” I asked again, trying not to give away the fact that I’d been there for a while. 

“I... I... was here to see Mr Holmes,” he stuttered, stepping into the middle of the hallway. I frowned.

“And what is it that I would be doing for you?” I heard the voice behind me and turned to see Sherlock striding from the doorway of 221B, one of his books in his hand. In the short time he had been back in his room he had changed into his suit, with his pipe held loosely between his teeth. I turned back to the visitor in time to see him flinch.

“Mr Holmes! I... can I talk to you in private?”

“Of course, right this way,” Sherlock said, sweeping his arm in a gesture that lead to the door of the rooms. We watched as the man slowly ascended the stairs, one hand gripping the banister. Sherlock leaned towards me and whispered, “Weak right leg, most likely knee,”

“War wound?” I asked, immediately thinking of my own injury.

“I doubt it. Does he look the military type to you? Unshaven, ill-fitting shoes, longer hair... I highly doubt he has had any form of military career,” he looked up at the man, who had now reached the top of the stairs.

“This way,” Sherlock gestured towards the door, and I held it open as the visitor shuffled through; noting his eyes darting around in fear. Once inside, he paused in the middle of the room, uncertainty clear.

“Please... take a seat,” Holmes gestured toward the seat by the window, and took a seat himself. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and formed his fingers into a steeple.

“What are the parameters of your case?” 

“I... heard about your expertise in the area of homicide...” the man stuttered, clenching and unclenching his hands. Sherlock reclined his head, waiting.

“There have been a series of them. Murders, I mean, and the police; they don’t have a clue... but I know when they’re going to take place.”

This statement elicited a frown from Sherlock. “You know when these murders are committed? Why don’t you tell the police?”

“It’s true, I know when and where they’re going to be committed, but I don’t know how it happens, or who does it. The police want that sort of information, not the facts I could provide.”

Holmes shook his head. “Ignorance. They ignore the facts. I really must speak with Lestrade about that.” He pulled a large sheet of paper from beneath a stack of books and handed it to the visitor along with a pen.

“Please write down everything you know... and don’t forget your name, please. I make it a point never to work without knowing my client. I’m sure you’ll understand.”  
I hid a smile, recognising Holmes’ play. That use of the phrase ‘I’m sure you’ll understand’ gave the client no chance to say otherwise. Courtesy was Sherlock’s trap.

“Yes, yes, of course...” our visitor mumbled, taking the pen in a shaky right hand.  
He began at the top left-hand corner of the page, writing out the name ‘Abel Douglas’ in a scrawling hand, made all the more illegible by the nature of his nerves. His frown deepened as he proceeded to write a short list which comprised of three locations and dates.

“This is all I know, but I will contact you if I hear anything else...” Mr Douglas said after a minute, sliding the paper back towards Holmes.

“Mr Abel Douglas... doesn’t ring any bells,” he mused, standing.

“I’m sorry?” Mr Douglas said.

“Mr Holmes keeps a record of all police activities,” I put in. “He says that it’s important for understanding future crimes; as all crimes have had some reflection in the past.”

“I must say,” Sherlock began, “you seem to know a remarkable amount about this case. What aren’t you telling us?”

Mr Douglas looked down, and for a moment I thought I saw a flash of panic, but before I could put a finger on it he pulled out a small pocket diary, opening it to the first date he’d written.

“My brother-in-law was one of the first. He had a good fight with the murderer, but ultimately lost... but he managed to knock the man’s diary from his pocket. The people from the morgue gave it to us with the rest of the items off the body.”  
Sherlock snatched it from his hands and began flicking through pages. 

“Why would a serial killer write out the dates of his killings in his diary? Hmm, this is an interesting one... thank you, Mr Douglas, we have all we need. If you have anything else for us, please don’t hesitate to get in touch, though I’m not sure what else you could get apart from this diary,” he waved in the direction of the door, signalling for our visitor to depart.

Once he had left, Sherlock sat back down in his chair with a sigh. “The next scheduled death is three days from now. It gives us time for fieldwork. I need the facts, dear Watson. My investigations are nothing without the facts.”

“What do you want me to do?” I inquired, fetching my jacket from the coat-stand.

“There are some other engagements written in the diary apart from those pertaining to the murder. Our first course of action would be to go to each of the places mention and inquire about a list of visitors, attendees, etcetera. Facts, Watson!” With that he strode into his room, returning moments later with his coat.

“What will you do?” I asked, picking up the diary from the arm of Holmes’ chair.

“I have to go and see Lestrade...”

“Are you planning on lecturing him on the state of his investigative processes?” I chuckled, opening the door.

“Precisely!” Sherlock replied, following me out the door.


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**CHAPTER TWO**

As I walked down Paddington Street, I took the diary from my pocket and looked back to the first recorded killing. A day later, the killer had met with a friend called ‘Jim’ on the steps of the British Library, so that was my first destination. I walked slowly, my leg aching slightly. When I arrived at the scene, I began thinking about how Holmes would conduct this part of his investigation. My first thought was of the ‘borrower’s book’ of the library, which may have kept record of a book taken out by the murderer or his friend. I walked in the door, and headed straight for the service desk. A middle-aged lady sat behind it, glasses slowly slipping down as she voraciously sped through ‘Great Expectations’ by Charles Dickens.

“Excuse me,” I cleared my throat, catching her attention.

“What might I do for you?” she asked, a little reproachful. Obviously she had been greatly enjoying her book.

“Dreadfully sorry to disturb you, I’m afraid I must see the head librarian on a matter of police business,” I declared, trying to sound as official as possible. Her face looked slightly shocked at the request, and hurriedly stood up from her seat and led me towards a side door. Stepping from the quiet, orderly library into the private offices was almost like stepping into another world. I spotted many a book that was so worn out that the spine was only being held together by a few thin strips of fabric. At the end of the first long room was a small man hunched over a gigantic volume, carefully rebinding it with thick red leather ordained with fine gold patterns. 

“Mr Perkins, this man is here on police business!” The lady who had brought me in called. Mr Perkins whipped around, almost hitting his knee on his chair as he did so.

“Hello, I’m John Watson,” I introduced myself, hand outstretched.

“Charmed,” Mr Perkins replied, shaking my hand. He was a small slight fellow with a brown suit that was stained with printer’s ink. He certainly looked the part of the head librarian, with his slight frame and thick glasses that framed his wide eyes.

“What might Sherlock Holmes be wanting from me? Don’t look so surprised, of course I have read your case reports. Thrilling stuff old chap, thrilling stuff.”

“Thank you. Mr Holmes is working on an interesting case at the moment, and he wants me to look through your records from a specific date. See here-” I showed him the pocket diary, pointing about the date in question. 

“Give me a moment, give me a moment,” he mumbled, rushing back to the door. He stopped just short, lifting a thick book off the shelf.

“All borrowing records are collated in this book. If we check that date-” he laid the book down on the table and began flicking through the pages until he reached the correct date. 

“We’re sure to find something pertaining to the case.”

We began to scan the pages, searching for a name similar to ‘Jim’, but even after an hour we found nothing. As we walked back to the main doors, he grasped my hand and shook it.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find anything, but in the future if you want to follow through with any cases, I’d be more than obliged to assist.”  
As I exited, I heard a church toll. I listened to the bell, counting five before the echoes ended.

“Gosh, is that the time already...” I mused, hailing a horse-drawn cab.

~~~

When I entered 221B Baker Street I saw Sherlock Holmes lounging in an arm chair, the day’s paper in a crumpled heap beside him.

“What did you find?” Holmes asked as I entered.

“No sign. I went to the library, which was the first place written about in the diary. The head librarian and I spent a full hour looking through the books.”

“It’s too slow,” he sighed, sitting back in his chair. “It’s good I talked to Lestrade. His department is on the case now. I gave them a report on the situation.”

“How did you remember the locations and dates?” I asked, bewildered.

“You see this is why I don’t remember useless information,” Holmes sighed, “It allows me to remember the information I actually need for cases. I have all the dates and locations in my head, unsullied by the mess that muddles your memory.”

For the next two days we focussed on collating the information we received from Lestrade. When the day came we were all very anxious. At six in the morning that day, Sherlock, Lestrade, a few of his officers and I camped out in a second story building looking down on Piccadilly Circus. We largely didn’t see anything until two in the afternoon, when two men collided on the street. We didn’t think on it until a minute or so later, when the man who had been run into began convulsing.

“Quick, get down there!” yelled Lestrade, his voice hoarse from lack of use. His officers raced down the stairs and out onto the street, closely followed by Holmes. But it was too late. The man fell to the ground, still convulsing but getting weaker and weaker, and in a minute he had stopped moving. Lestrade and I went after them. I moved as quickly as I could with my injured leg, but I was still the last to reach the body. When I got there, Sherlock was investing the body like a greyhound, not at all worried about the state of the body.

“Hmm, this was very clean, very clean... ” Sherlock put on a pair of rubber gloves and ran his fingers over the dead man’s back and shoes, closely inspecting the gloves after both actions, muttering as he went. He fished in the man’s pockets for any hints, but only found five pounds and a small torn corner of paper with nothing on it. Sherlock stood up, and turned to Lestrade, “We’ll have to take the body back to the morgue, I need to do some more tests.”

“Right. Howell! Daniels!” Lestrade called across to two of his officers. “We need a means of transportation able to carry the body back to St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”  
The two officers nodded and jogged up the street and held up a wagon which had recently delivered its goods to a nearby market. A short conversation between them and the driver ended with the slow procession of the cart and the officers back to the scene of the crime. With special care, the officers helped Sherlock gently lift the body into the bed of the cart. Sherlock climbed in alongside the body, and after a moment I followed.

“St Bartholomew’s Hospital, as gently as possible,” Sherlock called, then pulled out his magnifying glass. He opened the man’s eye and peered through the magnifying glass. “I’m looking for any impurities... if there was poison administered, there could be signs in the passages of blood vessels across the eye. Did you read that article I wrote? ‘320 types of poisons and their effects on the human face’.” He leaned forwards, focussing intently on the eye. Just as he did, the cart went over a bump, jostling us and causing Sherlock to almost fall on the body. His hand flashed past my field of vision and grasped the wooden railings, halting his body before he crashed to the floor.

“Did you see that?” he gasped, scrambling backwards until he was sitting safely again.

“See what?” I asked.

“I just saw...” he tailed off as he carefully slid the man’s sleeve up his arm. On the back of his forearm was a series of pinpricks forming a square, with droplets of congealed blood that had run down his arm. 

“It’s congealed. That means very close to time of death...” I mumbled, looking closer.

“I don’t want to make any assumptions too early,” he mumbled, pulling on another pair of rubber gloves, gently touching the wound, “but I think you’re right. This could be the cause of death.”

The wheels grated against the cobblestones as the cart slowed and then stopped outside the hospital. I climbed out of the cart and fetched a gurney from inside and carefully wheeled it back out to the cart. We carefully lifted the body out of the back of the cart and placed it on the gurney. Together we wheeled it though the hospital to the morgue. Holmes walked ahead, collecting his equipment from a drawer and starting his work, his back to me. I took out a pen, about to start writing his discoveries when a gloved hand appeared in front of my face, holding a cloth that smelt of chloroform. I tried to cry out, but the cloth was across my mouth before I could get a sound out. My vision blurred as I was dragged backwards through the door, and soon blackness overcame me like a relentless wave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Did you like my little reference to Moriarty?)


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**CHAPTER THREE**

If not for Sherlock’s impeccable memory, this section of our story would have been lost. Sherlock sat down beside the gurney and sighed, peering intently at the small pinpricks on the victim’s arm. Rummaging on the shelf, he brushed past the test tube full of different chemicals to fetch a small pair of tongs and a microscope slide. With those instruments he pried off a portion of the congealed blood and took it over to the microscope in the corner, turning on the light and peering through the lenses. With a few twists of the knobs he got a clear, amplified view of the blood. With a pen and a piece of paper he began to write down measurements and other information with his immaculate writing, filling the silence with the sound of his pen scratches. He paused for a moment.

“John? I need your notebook.” He waited for a response, but heard nothing.

“Watson! Come on, I need your notebook!” still there was no response, so Sherlock turned around in his seat. He was alone.

“Watson?” he stood, and walked slowly to the doorway and looked around. There was no sign. He turned right, walking down the dim corridor. He was about to give up and go back into the room when a voice echoed down the corridor.

“HOLMES!” Sherlock whirled around and saw Lestrade striding towards him.

“Lestrade. Have you seen Watson?”

“No I haven’t. But listen, we have some more information on the case. The murderer has left a message... you’re going to want to see this.” He walked away, and after a moment Sherlock followed. They walked together through the hallways for a while, their feet making the only sound which echoed dully against the walls. When they reached the front door, Sherlock was surprised to see a full police and investigative team standing just to the side, all staring at the same place. He stepped out and looped around so that he could see what they were all staring at, and stopped dead as he saw the message that Lestrade had told him about.

“We found it by accident,” Lestrade joined Sherlock, and gesture towards the message.

“One of the policemen came out here on patrol, and found this. We don’t know how it got here, but it’s pretty clear who it’s intended for...” Lestrade petered out as Sherlock stepped forwards.

“ _’To those who seek the killer; there is a new appointment for your diary... Tomorrow, 8 am, St James’ Park’_ ,” Sherlock read, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“They’re a bit ostentatious,” Lestrade muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Hmm, well he is a serial killer, what do you expect? The best serial killers have always been pretentious.” Sherlock stepped forward through the ranks of milling officers to look closely at the message.

“It’s written in blood,” he mused touching the letters with one long finger.

“In blood?” Lestrade exclaimed, striding forward to join Sherlock.

“Yes. The colour and texture is correct, and it’s the sort of material that this pompous killer would use. They often do.”

“I see. Weren’t you looking for Doctor Watson?”

“Yes, he has some information in his notebook I need,” Sherlock whirled around, searching for my face in the crowd. When he didn’t see me, he walked back the way he’d come, searching for me.

“Lestrade, are you sure you haven’t seen him?”

“No, I haven’t seen him since the first killing, and I thought he went with you.” Sherlock started running back through the hospital, searching the rooms. Lestrade sent an officer to the 221B rooms, but found nobody there.

“Sherlock, is it possible that he’s been abducted?”

“The thought had crossed my mind, and at this point I’m inclined to say that that’s probably what’s happened,” Sherlock said darkly, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll send a police force out for a search. We have to find him before-”

“No! We have to see what the killer’s going to do. The best hope of finding Watson is finding the killer,” Sherlock admonished, interrupting Lestrade in the middle of his sentence.

“But Doctor Watson-”

“Doctor Watson would not condone a police force spending its time on a wild goose chase around the city when it could be doing better work on the case!” Lestrade frowned, but didn’t say anything more. Sherlock sat down in a chair and rested his elbows on the armrests, forming his fingers into a steeple.

“We have to wait. There’s no other option.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, it was a sort of filler. Anyway - next chapter we have Watson as the captive.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**CHAPTER FOUR**

When I awoke, nothing greeted my eyes except darkness. Still confused by the leftovers of unconsciousness, I tried to lift my hands to my eyes, but was met with unexpected resistance. I carefully rotated my wrists, feeling the straps move against my skin. As my focus returned I felt the cloth over my eyes and relaxed slightly.

“Why am I here?” I asked, assuming that my kidnapper would be in the same room.

“You are here because of your association with Sherlock Holmes... and because you are about to die,” a cold voice soon answered, echoing as though in a cold, empty room.

“It was you! You’re the killer. You’re the one who Holmes is investigating!”

“Of course. Who else would kidnap you in the middle of an investigation? Obviously it’s going to be at least an interested party.”

“So... why are you going to kill me?” I asked, trying to make my voice as steady as possible.

“Nobody can know.”

The voice replied, low and threatening.

“Nobody can know what?” I asked, gently pulling against the straps.

“Nobody can know who I am, what I’ve done or why. Your death should get Sherlock Holmes off the case... especially seeing as I’m going to make it look like he’s the one killing you.”

The voice seemed to be gradually moving away, but on the last two words it was suddenly right next to my ear. I felt the hot breath of my kidnapper against the side of my face.

“Do you fear death?” it growled, cold metal pressing against my temple.

“I’m a soldier,” I replied simply.

This elicited a cold chuckle from the voice, and the barrel of the gun withdrew from my head. The place where it had been seemed feverishly warm.

“Are you trained for this kind of situation?” the voice said, once again in a different position.

I didn’t have a reply for that, so I remained quiet.

“You’re lucky,” the voice continued, “I had an arrangement in the diary for you, but I wasn’t sure whether it would work out...” it trailed off, leaving a silence so potent that it hurt my ears.

I listened intently, trying to pick up some small sound, and suddenly I was aware of the sound of footsteps. I couldn’t tell which direction they were going, but as I listened I could tell that they were quickening.

“Do you hear it yet?” the voice came out of the silence, so loud and unexpected in the silence that I recoiled in shock. “Do you hear the beats?” it continued, as if nothing had happened.

“Yes...” I said slowly, still listening to the steps.

“What do you think it is?” the voice asked, cold humour present.

“Footsteps?” I suggested, frowning under the blindfold.

“Wrong. It’s fear.” The voice replied.

“Fear?” I asked, not understanding.

“Fear, making your heartbeat loud in your ears; making it race and rise in volume until it’s almost deafening. You are afraid, John Watson. So afraid that you, a man of medicine; assume that your own heartbeat is a threat.”

I let my chin rest on my chest for a moment until I felt a hand on my collar, pulling me to my feet. I hadn’t even felt my hands being freed.

“Come on, Watson. We’re going on a little walk, you and me.” He shoved me in front of him and pulled off the blindfold, but when I tried to catch a glimpse of my captor I felt the gun in the small of my back.

“Turn around and I shoot... and I’ll still be able to make it look like Holmes killed you.”

The voice growled. I straightened up and walked towards the door, still feeling the gun against my back.

“What a pleasant walk this is going to be...” the voice mused. “You, me, a gun, and some chaos...” he petered off, and I imagined a smile on his face.

We exited the building we were in through a dingy side door that opened onto a narrow alley. It was raining slightly, the water forming a light mist that dusted everything with a light coating. We walked through the back alleys of London until we reached St James’s Park. As soon as I stepped through the gates I realised what was about to happen. Striding across the park was Sherlock, his eyes fixed intently on the ground. As he neared me, I felt a sharp pain in my hip, as though lots of small pins were sticking into me, and then the gentle pressure of the gun against my back was gone.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed as he jogged the last few paces towards me.

“Careful!” I warned, but as soon as I turned I saw that the kidnapper had vanished.

“Where have you been, John, we were searching-”

“It was the killer, Sherlock. The killer got me, right behind you!”

“Yes, I know; and I’m sorry.”

“But he’s here! He brought me here at gunpoint,” I interrupted.

“Yes, I’d gathered.” Sherlock looked around carefully, but by the way his sight returned to me I knew he hadn’t seen anything important.

“What did you learn? Was there anything you heard or saw that could give us a lead?”

“I... I don’t know. I haven’t been conscious long, I don’t even know what time it is.” I said, shaking my head.

“It’s 11am. You’ve been missing for sixteen hours. The killer left a message...” Sherlock’s eyes clouded and a look of realisation overtook his features.

“You’re the target.” He turned in a circle, looking around the immediate area again. When his pack was turned, I felt someone brush past me, closely followed by a piercing pain in my back. I cried out, and Sherlock span back around to face me.

“Hey!” he shouted after whoever had been behind me, but I knew that he’d already realised he couldn’t have caught the man.

“Sherlock; my back...”

“What’s wrong?” he walked behind me, looking at my back.

“I think-” I mumbled, the words thick and unwieldy in my mouth. My vision blurred, and I staggered, trying to keep my balance. “I think he got me,” my knees buckled and I fell, Sherlock catching my shoulders just before I hit the ground.

“Watson? Come on, Watson. Where does it hurt?”

“My back... like needles...” I saw Lestrade running towards us from a distance. My vision blurred slightly and I felt myself slipping into a trance-like state. I dimly felt myself being lifted and carried away. I don’t know how long we travelled like that, but I was dimly aware of us entering St Bartholomew’s Hospital. I felt cold air on my chest and realised that Holmes and Lestrade were carefully but quickly taking off my jacket and shirt. They laid me down face first on a gurney, and I felt a swab move over my back, brushing over the most painful area.

“Needles...” the words swam through the nether, mumbled and fuzzy, but still distinctive as Holmes’.

“They must have been hollow, transmitted some poison or something... what are you doing?” Sherlock broke off his sentence with a note of confusion. I struggled against the poison, managing to turn my head ever so slightly and through the distortion I saw Lestrade grappling with Sherlock; trying to hold his wrists together to secure handcuffs on them.

“Let me go! It wasn’t me!”

“You have to be considered as a suspect! You were there at the time, and nobody else was. This makes you a suspect! Now just let me cuff you!”

“It wasn’t me!” Sherlock managed to shake free and grabbed some test tubes off to shelf. He danced around the gurney, avoiding Lestrade while pouring the chemicals together. When he was happy, he rolled me over on pinched my nose, pouring the mixture into my mouth. I choked and swallowed. Holmes watched eagerly, and even Lestrade seemed to pause as they both waited for the effects. I coughed again, and I thought I felt some of the miasma that was clogging my thoughts drift away. Lestrade broke out of his daze and lunged for Holmes’ wrists, and was about to secure the cuffs around them when I finally managed to form an intelligible sentence.

“It wasn’t Sherlock...” I groaned, lifting my head slightly.

“Watson!” Lestrade exclaimed, forgetting about the cuffs.

“John? John, answer me. Are you alright?” Holmes carefully helped me sit up, draping my jacket around my shoulders.

“I’m fine, I’m fine... how did you-”

“Not now. First I need to do some tests,” he picked up a small pencil torch.

“Keep your eyes open and focus on my finger,” Sherlock held up a finger, and when I focussed on it he shone the torch into my eyes. A frown creased his forehead as he focussed on what he was doing, but after a moment he turned off the torch and put it back on the bench.

“You’re fine. The poison’s passing. I’m glad I got to it in time, you were almost at the coma stage,” he sighed and sat on the bench beside me. Lestrade put the cuffs back in his pocket and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. I stood unsteadily, grasping the edge of the bench, blinking as I tried to shake off the last vestiges of dizziness. When I was feeling steady enough I reached for my shirt, inspecting the holes in the back.

“How did you-” Lestrade began, but Holmes silenced him with a look and picked up his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done... feel free to critique~


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 

As soon as we had travelled back to the police headquarters we entered Lestrade’s office and sat down. I was thankful for the rest, as the poison coupled with my injured leg had tired me considerably.

“The poison administered is known as Amatoxin. Administered through the bloodstream, causes a slow, painful path to unconsciousness which will leave you in a coma until death, which can last for days or even months. The symptoms matched, so I made an informed decision. Fairly simple deduction.” Sherlock explained, rubbing his jaw-line with his index finger.

“How did you know?” Lestrade leaned forward in his seat.

“Nothing is original these days. Not even serial killings. You really should spend a week or so reading up on crime history, it’s not just helpful but rather fascinating,” Sherlock said scathingly.

“The poison was implemented using a patch of hollowed-out needles which release the poison into the bloodstream. Simple. The murderer comes up to his target and brushes against him, pressing the pad to some part of their body and releasing the toxin. Quick and easy, almost like pick-pocketing. Hmm, this case... this case is quite marvellous.”

“But who’s the murderer?” I asked, struggling to process the information I’d just received.

“That’s what I have to figure out now...” Sherlock mused, closing his eyes and putting his hands together, almost like a prayer. His lips moved silently as he raced through his memory, looking for clues.

“Care to share?” Lestrade asked after a minute or so, but was angrily shushed by Sherlock, who didn’t even flinch. Suddenly his eyes flew open and his hands parted, an expression of abrupt realisation on his face.

“Oh... Oh!” He gasped, and then laughed.

“What is it?” Lestrade and I asked in unison.

“Abel... Douglas...” Sherlock said slowly, letting the name hover in the silence.

“Abel Douglas?” Lestrade asked, but I was already gasping.

“Abel Doug- that’s the man! The man who we found in Baker Street!”

“Quite. We’re going to want to visit 221C Baker Street; I suspect we’ll find his chemistry lab.”

“His chemistry lab? Why would anyone use 221C as a place to make poison?” I asked, bewildered.

“Because it’s the last place we’d expect,” Sherlock explained.

“It’s right under our nose, so we assume that it’s safe. He must have been working hard to keep it a secret all this time. He’s cleverer than I thought.” Holmes stood abruptly and strode from the room. Glancing at each other, Lestrade and I quickly followed. We hurried out to the street and hailed a cab, stepping well back as the cabby reigned in the horses, and climbed in. The trip to Baker Street was tense, Sherlock staring at the floor and bouncing his knees as he waited impatiently for the cab to reach its destination. As the cab pulled up by the kerbside, Sherlock leapt out and quickly slotted his key into the door and turned, swinging the door open. Once inside, Sherlock’s body language changed. He became quieter, more careful. With a silent beckoning motion, he encouraged us forward. We crept up to the door of 221C, careful not to make a noise. Sherlock dug in his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and a pen.

‘ _He’s still in there,_ ’ he wrote, ‘ _On the count of three we’re going to have to break into the room and apprehend him. Understand?_ ’We nodded, and I pulled my revolver out of my pocket. Sherlock held up one hand and put up one finger. We readied ourselves. The second finger raised, and a third. On the third, Holmes slammed his shoulder against the door, bursting through into the room beyond. Mr Douglas whirled around, gun raised, but I had my revolver on him before he had it raised. Knowing he was beaten, he slowly lowered his gun and threw it onto the floor by Lestrade’s feet.

“Abel Douglas...” Sherlock said slowly.

“I had a feeling from the beginning that you were more mixed up in all of this than you let on. Your defence was weak... but then again, you weren’t expecting to run into me, were you? You are clever though. Leading me astray, making this Amatoxin mixture...” Lestrade stepped forwards and clapped the handcuffs onto Douglas’ wrists.

“You are under arrest, anything you do and say will be used against you. You will be convicted of serial homicide and... Well... all that old spiel,” the Detective Inspector said smugly, putting the key back into his pocket. Mr Douglas hadn’t said anything the whole time, but as Lestrade led him out of the room he glared savagely at Sherlock and spat hard in his face. I started forward but Holmes held me back. With his other hand he wiped the saliva off his face, shaking his hand a couple of times before wiping it on his trousers. Lestrade tugged Abel Douglas forwards, and together they shuffle through the door and out to the street.

“Sherlock Holmes!” a scolding voice suddenly broke the silence. We turned around and saw Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“What in God’s name have you done to my door?”

“Please, Mrs Hudson... I’ve just apprehended a serial killer,” Sherlock gestured at all the equipment.

“Doesn’t mean you can break down my door!” Mrs Hudson muttered, then turned on her heel and stalked back to her apartment. Sherlock watched her go and then turned back to me.

“I really am sorry about the kidnapping,” he said, walking over to the chemical apparatuses covering every surface.

“It’s nothing,” I muttered, pulling out the killer’s diary.

“So the killer began with his brother-in-law? Why?” I asked.

“Because he was having an affair,” Sherlock said, looking closely at some of the chemicals.

“How did you... oh never mind” I sighed, and slowly ascended the stairs. This had certainly been one of the more interesting cases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends the tale.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feel free to critique as you see fit~


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